#finalfullmoon

[verseandrhyme]

…there is something so odd about the way he speaks. Mitama has spent a lifetime hunting for meanings in a limited number of words, and even she cannot pinpoint just what it is in the strange man’s answer that makes her pause. There is something offputting to it, like a painting tilted just ever so slightly to the side. Still beautiful, but not right either.

Is it humbleness with which he proclaims his inferiority, or intention?

“Is care a requisite for an exchange of words to be considered a conversation?” She muses. She phrases it as though she asks herself, but she cannot deny the curiosity at what his answer might be. “What name might be put to this moment then, I wonder.”

Thanks are offered, but she has done nothing worthy of them. She hums non-commitely in response, gaze already trailing to follow his as he returns to work. What a polite dismissal, if she has ever seen one. “A moment of inconvenience now to prevent greater inconvenience down the road. I would prefer if you see to it that I need not take the time to do so again.”

Mitama turns away, waving over her shoulder. Odd. And with no name to place or question about it either. Ah, well. She will not be the first to break and ask.

※— IN THE END, HE FINDS THAT THE ONLY PEOPLE WORTH TALKING TO ARE THE ONES WHO DON’T FLINCH WHEN YOU PUT BLOOD IN THE TEA. That is to say—those who know better than to mistake civility for goodness. She doesn't flinch. Not when he folds the handkerchief. Not when he all but lays out the shape of his death in poetic overtures. No, she only watches, patient and unromantic.

"A threat? No," he says softly. "If I were threatening you, I would already be finished." It burned his tongue to lie to his own detriment. "I am no match for the likes of anyone here."

The smile that follows is small and sweet in the way that honesty sometimes is. If he had his way, it would be small and mean.

"Presumptuous, yes. But so is every conversation. We assume someone might answer. That they might care." It is predictable enough.

His gaze doesn’t waver now.

"If you stepped over me, I wouldn’t blame you." A pause. Navigate a badly-cut maze without losing patience. "It is enough that you flagged me down before I collapsed."

"...Thank you."

He shuffled comfortably, stacking the books back in order, slotting the right ones in place. The last thing seen would be a flutter of his eyes shut, kind, before he rested the last book in place. But he made no motion to stop working.

[mourningcomess]

These roses in the monastery's gardens were a far cry from the ones she used to frequent in the Grannvale Empire. Of the luxurious and opulence, of grandeur older than time could tell, the Grannvale Empire's castle sang a ballad of affluence that only a measured elite could enter. Ishtar, being privy to this select few, often frequented the gardens with her beloved. Such a sight was forever etched into her memory.

That she should have to deign to go to this pitiful garden! Ishtar was no less than a princess, by birth and ability - the prize of all of Friege. Yet looking around the gardens, she saw no semblance of what she was worth. Tch. Whatever. This was all she was going to get in this new life. No longer did she sit high above. No, she was not much higher than a peasant.

So she walked onwards in these pitiful grounds, glancing to and fro at the flower beds. As she made way around a corner, a hot flash of crimson caught her eye behind another arch of roses. Curious. A somber lady poked her head further without making much other movement. What could only be called pure bewilderment stretched out across her features as she stood disoriented in the greens. 

Lord Julius?

No.

It could not be. But he appeared to be pleasantly enjoying his tea. Yet, how could his appearance make any sense? And moreover, how would she align herself? Ishtar came to this world to be redeemed and yet.....when she saw his gentle visage, that curve of the lip, those deep vermilion eyes that seemed to know all - even his very presence beget a comforting lull for her - a place she had to return to - it was far too difficult for Ishtar to pull herself away. Just as the ocean pulls a tide, she would come back to him. Always. It was hardly a matter worth debating over. Just as she knew there was a demon underneath the mask, she knew she could never live without being by his side so long as he breathed.  It wasn't a choice. Lord Julius was where she needed to be.

Ishtar stepped from behind the greenery and beheld the man in all his splendor.

"Lord Julius," she called sweetly, voice like honey. 

@finalfullmoon

by your side (again)

[senerist]

The dark cloud approaches.  As overwhelming as it is, it takes shape the closer it gets to soren.  It has a paper cut that soren can feel just as keenly on his own finger.  It is scrutinizing.  he caught its interest.

he closes his eyes and takes in a centering breath.  A sugary-sweet voice offers help, but it's icing on rotten fruit.  soren focuses on the stench.

To be polite and to avoid suspicion, soren glances at the asker as he intends to speak his response, but he stops short the moment their eyes meet.  There's the abyss - burning crimson as his own, otherworldly, and with a cloying pull that rends his stomach into knots.

he has never before met a person like this before.

A thought that isn't his worms its way into his mind, but he can tell it isn't this boy's either.  Listen to Him, it coos.  He will understand.  Like hell.

“No thank you,” he replies after an obvious beat.  There is no turning back the time to cover that obvious pause, but he can recover to the best of his ability.  “i'm well acquainted by the library now.”

he didn't need to say that.  he said it anyway.  he shivers.  The rot likes that; he can tell.

@senerist asked: As soren enters the library, he feels as though he's hit physically with a dark cloud of malignancy. There's some... thing that radiates condescension in a way that reminds soren of something truly sinister. Even the so-called dark god never felt this... rancid. he tries to ignore it. It's so overwhelming that he can barely determine which of the current library-goers are responsible, nor does he particularly want to know. As the saying goes, when you stare into the abyss; the abyss stares back. soren does not want to be scrutinized. he passes a few people and heads to the section on crestology - his usual haunt. It's likely that whoever is responsible for this miasma can sense his strangeness just as easily as he senses theirs...

※— HE SENSES SOMEONE WHO REEKS OF STRUGGLE. A pinprick of blood flicked off Julius' own finger as he accidentally cut himself, the sharp edge of a new book catching him in his sudden prang of interest. Whatever that thing that just entered the library was, his power was not enough to even warrant a flutter of his eyelashes. But it felt like friction— a press of scales on soft flesh.

This one had the seams of a godling yet none of the plush inside. Strangeness. What a waste.

Julius flitted between the book stalls, eyes only a touch bored as he spotted the thing as he went down the crestology section of the library. Sucking on his own finger to dry the blood out, he decided that this was as good enough a distraction as any.

Approaching from the other side of the bookshelf, he pilfered two books to look this one in the eyes. Red coaxed with silks and the finest of wines.

"...Do you need assistance?" Kind. A voice as sweet as his mother's.

[nagaficat]

Mother.

She knows that voice. Of course she knows it. It is deeper but she still knows her son.

She turns toward his voice and her face lights up when she sees him. Even after everything that has happened, she is not afraid. This is her son. She loves him. She has always loved him. What kind of mother would she be if she did not believe in him? If she turned and fled at the sight of him?

"Julius?"

She walks slowly toward him, taking the moment to really look at him. He has always resembled his father but now, as old as he is, he is the very spitting image of Arvis. She knew, of course. She always knew he would grow up to look like him.

Has he found his father here yet? Their family almost complete! Deirdre knows it is surely only a matter of time before Julia finds them here, too.

"Oh, Julius!"

She cannot help it. She reaches out. Her arms pull him into an embrace. She has waited almost four years to hold him again. He has waited longer.

Has he waited? Has he thought of her at all?

"My prayers are finally coming true!"

you, who made me this way. { julius/deirdre

[verseandrhyme]

His response makes her pause, running the nature of it over in her head once more as its tone settles into place. Was that a joke? A jab? She frowns at the cover of the book she has selected as she ponders the puzzle laid out before her. She cannot imagine many that would refer to an incident involving their health as poor manners.

The more insulting part is that, even if it is not a joke, he is not entirely off base either. Paperwork and tracking of individual incidents is important for better treatment during potential future incidents. It was also an absolute nightmare that she hated.

Mitama hums nonchalantly in response. She lifts her head to meet his gaze properly for the first time since this conversation begun, tapping a finger absently against the book's cover. The handkerchief is gone now, leaving his face unmasked. She studies him silently.

"...the body can only follow pure will for so long, even in the strongest of cases." She counters, familiar with with how the most stubborn of soldiers can push themselves to continue fighting. "As for the something else..."

Did the ghostly figures they fought have bodies to cut down, or had they been mere lingering wills left behind and manipulated? Magic had not told her, and she had never asked her friends who struck with weapons. She lets the thought lie dormant.

"You make your offering sound more threat than promise." She scoffs. "And you assume that I would stop to help you at all, rather than step over you and leave you to your earned fate. Rather presumptuous of you."

※— STRANGE, HOW DISMISSIVENESS MASKED CONCERN IN OTHERS. Not unlike how smiles mask the teeth beneath. Julius did not bristle at her tone. On the contrary, he thought there was charm in a frayed bite, like someone who was willing to risk their canines and molars if need be. The kind of honesty one only learned when surrounded too long by suffering.

He stood properly now, if such a thing could be said of someone always half-floating between form and affectation.

"Of course," he replied mildly, as though her words had not been a jab at all. "It’s terribly rude to collapse on one’s first week. Poor manners, really. Think of the paperwork."

His hand lowered from his mouth now, handkerchief neatly folded once, then again—disappearing like a magician’s trick into the folds of his sleeve. His eyes no longer lingered on her hair, but on the rhythm of how she stacked her books. Even in this, there was intention.

"You’ve studied healing, have you? ...I have, too." Not a lie. "Then you understand—" his tone dipped, softened, not unkind— "sometimes the body obeys the will. And sometimes, it answers to something else entirely."

There is a pause. Not theatrical. Just long enough for silence to settle between syllables.

"I assure you, if I collapse, it will not be quietly."

He offered this like a favor.

Then a blink, a trace of a smile, something unreadable curving faintly at the edge of his expression.

"But I’ll take your warning seriously. I would hate to see you inconvenienced." A flicker in his voice—irony? No, appreciation. Dry as dusk.

[verseandrhyme]

As so many do when confronted about something that they are obviously trying to keep from the attention of the others, he insists that he is fine. The urge to roll her eyes has to be fought against. How ridiculous, to insist one's self as the picture of health while hiding behind a hankerchief like some kind of fragile waif. Despite his prudence, no further coughs follow...an observation she is distracted from near immediately as he leans towards her.

Mitama blinks at the remark, subconciously leaning back from him. Though he comments on her eyes, it is easy to tell at this distance that his attention lays elsewhere. Her...hair? She frowns, slightly. Her hair has always been one of the brighter shades, but she does not think it so unusual. There are a great many at the Academy alone with shades far more eye catching than she considers her own (that Lions student with dual coloured hair comes immediately to mind). The style, perhaps then? It is something more unique to Hoshido...so she has been told.

...it is not worth worrying herself over, even if this odd librarian seems to find it particularly interesting for some reason. "I have studied and performed as a healer in the past. Learning to spot the stubborn types who insist on hiding is a part of the job." She does not believe her assessment to be incorrect in the slightest, but she has no reason to push further when she has been denied.

Mitama scans the nearby shelf quickly before pulling out another book relating to the application of reason magic, and adds it to the pile in her arms. "Call it worry, if you like. I call it not wanting to be inconvenienced by a collapsed body in the library. You can probably argue for leniency on your first few shifts, you know?"

@verseandrhyme asked: As she removes a book from one of the shelves, Mitama catches a glimpse of the newest library. Ordinarily, this is a situation which is not worth remarking on. Librarians come and go, just like many other staff members at the Academy. A new face is not worth commenting on, unless it is a familiar one. Ordinarily, however, they do not appear so sickly. After a moment, she sighs heavily, knowing it will irritate her if she allows sleeping dogs to lie, before quietly approaching the staff member. "Excuse me." She keeps her voice low, as befitting the library. "I do not intend to intrude, but are you alright? You appear to be a bit..." Hmm, telling him to his face that he looks ragged is likely not wise. "unwell. If you require assistance, the infirmary is not far off."

※— THE FIRST THING HE NOTICES IS NOT THE STARS BUT THE BLEED OF HER HAIR. It is pink and awfully, awfully rare in Jugdral. And better yet, she craved his attention in a way many others did—a case of compassion lended to his flesh, as if he were human. As if his ailment could even be conferrable to the kind a mere infirmary could seek to heal. Still, he should not degrade her outreach—if his pallor had been so evident, he was surely down on his luck.

Her whisper reached him. Isn't she fortunate? "...Oh." His eyes clasp with kindness, wrinkling like the strings holding up his mother had lent its pull to him.

"Yes, I'm..."

I am no mere charity case.

The polite clearing of his throat dropped, sounding more and more like a heavy case of wet lung. He floated his hand to his throat, wincing, before bringing up a handkerchief to cover his mouth.

The coughing fit never comes.

"Thank you for your concern. You have discerning eyes, don't you?"

Pulling down two books from his end, he leaned in. Closer. Handkerchief still up to his mouth. Eyes not reflecting the stars, but the pink hair that no one coveted in Jugdral.

"Sorry for worrying you."